


Content was Always My Favorite Color

by karrenia_rune



Category: Clue (1985)
Genre: Gen, Post-Movie(s), Sports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-15
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-09 11:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4347824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/karrenia_rune/pseuds/karrenia_rune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After serving time in jail for his role as an accessory to murder and other unspecified charges, Colonel Mustard, or Reginald Rhodes, takes up a new<br/>job, as newspaper journalist. It's uncharted territory for him, but he's determined to make the most of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Content was Always My Favorite Color

Disclaimer: Clue and the characters mentioned here belong to  
Warner Bros and their respective creators; with the exception of  
Colonel Mustard's boss. The title comes from the Rocket Summer' song.

"Content was always my Favorite Color" by Karrenia

 

He'd done his time in prison after the fallout of the events up at the Old Hill House, although he still believed it was more than a little unfair to lump them all into together for the actions of one murderous blackmailer.  
It was a good thing that he'd been able to cut a deal with the New York District Attorney to cut his sentence short and get an early release for good behavior.

While he'd been serving the time he'd done a lot of thinking about what he should do with his life once he got out. He'd also wanted to put as much distance between himself and those unpleasant memories as possible.  
Colonel Mustard, for a reason he had yet to figure out, still wondered why the moniker had stuck with him, had gained a measure of renewed determination. 

He still drove the '49 Silver Packard and he still sported the same sandy-brown mustache but he figured that he'd used his pension from the army and get a job.  
Reginald Rhodes, or Reggie as he was known around the bullpen, wanted to make a good impression on his new boss. 

A stiff-lipped rather conservative newspaper editor who had come up through the ranks from newsboy to the editor through a combination of hard work, and an undeniable talent for journalism. 

Mr. Thomas Olliver expected the best out of his employees and, God forbid, that's exactly what Reggie Rhodes was about to give him.

He sighed and put his hands behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. Now if he could only find something to write about for his latest column. He knew he didn't have the resume or the experience of more senior journalists; that would come with time, and it would only make sense to give the juicier features and headline columns to those people.  
Still a column was a column.

He'd written reports during his stint with the army, but the world of journalism was different, yet at the same time, it wasn't.  
Just how and where the lines of distinction ran, Reggie had considered writing for sports, after all that was better for a column than the celebrated rivalry between Micky Mantle and Roger Maris of the Yankees.

He didn't much care for the Yankees themselves; after all;, he'd grown up cheering and going to ball games at Shea Stadium, and he was a Mets fan through and through, but that should not affect his ability to write a decent article for the paper. should it?

Micky Mantle was the all-around athlete, personable on and off the field; did well in interviews and press-conferences, every ones home-town hero. Not much was known about Maris, other than both men had a kind of friendly rivalry going on during games and practices, and that the man had a good home life, that he sometimes struggled to balance between his commitment to the team and his commitment to his wife and children. 

"Yeah," Reggie commented out loud, " that will do."

Then, with a start, he realized that it would not do.  
The problem was, it wasn't enough. He would have to go to Yankee Stadium and try and get the latter to talk to him. 

He got up from his desk and took the sheet of paper from the machine and tucked it into an attache case, and with a pad of paper and a ball-point pen behind one ear he left the newspaper office; said hello to the operator, Margaret as he walked out of the building, and out to the parking lot and to his car.

At Yankee Stadium it took more than a little quick thinking and fast talking to convince the burly and somewhat surly security guard to let him in, and that he was indeed a member of the New York Daily Dispatch in good standing, and that he only requires a few minutes of Mister Maris or Mr. Mantle's time.

The surly looking fellow remained at his post by the tunnel that the players used to get from the clubhouse to the playing field, but the first guard assigned another of his fellows to escort the reporter to the men in question.

He found Roger Maris sorting through his collection of Jazz records.

"I'm sorry, to interrupt, Sir, but I just require a few minutes of your time."

"Yes," the younger man replied. "Hello, there. "What can I do for you?"

"My name is Reginald Rhodes, my friends call me Reggie, and I'm with the New York Daily Dispatch."

"You're a reporter." Maris replied, this time with a distinct drop in tone from his earlier warm greeting.

"It's just that I'm well, I hate to admit this, but new to the task of sports-writing and I'm finding that it's much more difficult to capture the essence of a sports figure without actually meeting them in the flesh, as it were."

"To be honest, Mr. Rhodes, I've done a lot of interviews and the like, and you're well..."

"Different?"

"Yeah, different. Do you like Duke Ellington?"

"The name rings a bell," Reggie replied, not certain where Maris was going with this, but vaguely recalled that Maris was fond of going off on tangents, but with the uncanny ability to eventually circle around to the central topic of conversation.

"I guess so," Reggie replied. "Cant' say I have the pleasure of properly being introduced to the man or his music."

"You should him a try sometime," Maris replied, with a shrug and kind of half-smile that seemed right on his narrow, thin-lipped, handsome face.

"As teammates, working in what's known as the battery, you work like a well-oiled machine; could you explain how that dynamic carries over off the filed?"

"I must get that question a hundred times a week," Maris replied with a sigh. "But it gets ingrained into one, after a while. Mantle's thinks so well of himself that I think that it's become a part of him."

"You think that it shouldn't?" It was more a statement than a question, but Maris did not seem to take offense, or even if he did, chose not to remark upon it.

"You see, there's pride in one's God-given talents, and hard work and then's there a kind of arrogance. He carries it well, Heaven knows, and a part of me even admires him for it."

"All the same, sometimes, when the pressure of the game is getting to me...."

"Yes," Reggie encouraged.

"There are times when I just want to heave a ball into his smug face. Not that I ever would, but you know how it is, I suspect?"

"Yeah, I guess I do. "It's not the fame and fortune, is it?"  
Maris paused before he replied softly, "No, it's something more visceral than not, something more difficult to define. If that makes any sense?"

"Yeah, it does. And Mr. Maris, thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice. I sincerely appreciate it."

"You're welcome, Reggie." And I recommend you check out Duke, I promise you won't regret it."


End file.
